


The Desire to Move Like You Do

by dimeliora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Case Fic, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26350351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimeliora/pseuds/dimeliora
Summary: This was written for Ashtraythief and I hope that it is worth the wait. I was tasked with doing something early season, angsty, and Canon appropriate. Whether or not I succeeded I will leave up to the brilliant creator that asked for this.I have chosen not to use warnings as this contains one of my most ambitious and unique sex scenes ever. I'll just point out that Sam is 17 bordering 18 and Dean is 21.So...you know...proceed at your own risk?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 106





	The Desire to Move Like You Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashtraythief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtraythief/gifts).



> This was written for Ashtraythief and I hope that it is worth the wait. I was tasked with doing something early season, angsty, and Canon appropriate. Whether or not I succeeded I will leave up to the brilliant creator that asked for this. 
> 
> I have chosen not to use warnings as this contains one of my most ambitious and unique sex scenes ever. I'll just point out that Sam is 17 bordering 18 and Dean is 21. 
> 
> So...you know...proceed at your own risk?

Shortly after Dean turns twenty-one, they take a case in Santa Ana. He makes dad promise that if they solve it fast enough, they’ll utilize an unimportant credit card and buy tickets to Disney. Anaheim is, after all, only a hop, skip, and jump away.

The winter rains have washed away the evidence of the seasonal wildfires in Orange County, and Dean has no shortage of babes in tiny shirts and light jackets to stare at. He wonders if they ever imagine what real cold would be like, but then Sam reminds him that they all probably go up north to ski or snowboard every winter.

The case is weird, and dad has announced that Sam and Dean have to stay as far away from it as possible. Since his little brother has no school to enroll into here, and he finishes home schooling assignments the way Dean finishes bags of pork rinds, that leaves the two of them with nothing but time to get on each other’s nerves.

And _that_ they are achieving with ease.

Two fights about what to watch, seven about what to eat, and five about Dean going out drinking. If Sam was grinding any harder on his nerves Dean would simply implode from repressed rage.

Maybe that makes what happens next his fault. One minute they’re fighting over whether to eat more Chef Boyardee or order out, and the next Dean is reading a newspaper article aloud about a series of teenage deaths. Kids that look like they were in death battles.

He doesn’t even remember why he suggests that the two of them check it out. It sounds far less like one of their kind of cases and more like the kind the FBI is in charge of. Despite that, Dean and Sam start mapping out clues and plotting who to talk to.

Later, when it all goes to shit, he honestly can’t remember why he did it. A desperate attempt to grab something that was already slipping out of his reach? It’s possible, but Dean could never say for sure.

* * *

They’re in Peoria and everything is shit. Everything that possibly can be shit is shit.

Dean is trying his best to crawl under Sam’s skin, to feel out how bad the damage is, but Sam will be goddamned if he has to lean on Dean anymore right now. He’s been enough trouble with a broken fucking arm and they’ve got work to do. Ava being gone is just one more red entry in his ledger.

His brother is loading up the car, whistling something that sounds like a mixture of “Hell’s Bells” and “For Whom the Bell Tolls”. The mashup is not great. Sam drops the last bag in the backseat, the one that doesn’t contain the kinda shit that will end them up in a prison or worse, and then waits for Dean to get even on the other side before opening the passenger door and sliding in beside him.

“You want anything specific?”

Dean is holding the box of tapes, looking at Sam in a way that only spells trouble. The fact he’s even asking is a huge red flag that at any moment Dean is gonna start poking and prodding at him again, looking for chinks in the armor.

“Back in Black.”

There’s an excited hoot in response, and Dean loads a tape in the deck and then starts the Impala up before backing out of the space. They’re heading to Connecticut, a case. Hunting things, saving people.

Most of the family’s business.

* * *

Sam leans over a mountain of pizza boxes and pokes Dean with one bony finger while the other hand holds up a blurry printout. For all his little brother’s prudishness, Sam never seems to mind putting greasy fingers on him.

“Get this. This isn’t the first time.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow, indicating that Sam thinking he can read the tiny fucking text is more absurd than anything else his brother could possibly be doing. Sam wipes the fingers of the hand he just touched Dean with on a napkin and then holds the printout closer with both hands.

It is obviously because he is a younger sibling that he can’t even hand the goddamn thing over like an adult.

“Twenty years ago there was a spate of disappearances. Five sets of teenage siblings over six months. The last ones were a brother and sister from Laguna Beach. Fraternal twins. Those were the only ones they found.”

“Laguna Beach? Sounds rich.”

“It certainly is. Apparently rumors said they were spotted last in Irvine, which isn’t too far from here and just happens to be where the second two teenagers you read about were found.”

“Yeah, great, but there’s a problem with your theory, Short Round.”

Sam’s eyes narrow down dangerously, and Dean senses an impending victory that will be infinitely more satisfying than the pizza he just crammed into his stomach.

“I am not Short Round.”

“You are Short Round. I have the jacket, the swagger, and the skill to be Indy and you are my sidekick. That makes you Short Round.”

“I got a couple inches on you this last growth spurt. I don’t think I’m the short one anymore.”

Dean hates Sam and hates puberty and hates genetics. Where the fuck did Sam even get those inches? Dean’s as tall as dad now.

“My case and your case aren’t the same case.”

“And how do you know that, _Short Round_?”

“Because, _Short Round_ , mine aren’t siblings.”

Sam stops at that, eyes darting in between the article printout in his hand and Dean’s face. The smile dies, and for half a second Dean feels bad before he remembers that Sam just called him Short Round a bunch of times.

“Maybe it changed.”

“What changes from only hunting siblings to hunting unrelated teenagers? That’s a stretch. When there’s a pattern like this if it’s a monster there’s a reason for it. That reason doesn’t change because they don’t feel like looking for a related pair anymore. So, there’s _no way_ they’re related.”

Sam’s mouth thins down to a little line, and then he pushes his way up off the bed and stalks over to the vanity before grabbing up his backpack and swirling out the door in the way only teenagers who are _suffering_ can.

Dean leans back on the bed and changes the channel to AMC before grabbing the last deluxe slice. He won this round. He has to prepare for the next one.

* * *

Sam is dreaming. He knows it, but he doesn’t push it. It’s not one of the dreams that ends in vomiting and hitting the floor, so he’s willing to ride along and see where it goes.

In the dream Dean is looking through a seed catalog, and Sam leans over his shoulder to see that his brother is studying a number of different flowers. Dean’s finger rubs the glossy page, temporarily pointing at a rose before landing on a picture of a red salvia.

“This one. I think this would be the best for our garden.”

_We don’t have a fucking garden_ , Sam thinks, even as his dream mouth opens and says, “Marigolds seem more fitting.”

Dean tilts his head back, looking at Sam with eyes that are brighter and lighter than the real Dean’s face has been in all of Sam’s memory.

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You never mention it, so why should it matter?”

Sam’s anger swells, making his hands shake and his mouth pull into a rictus grin that he can’t even try to soften or make more realistic.

“I mentioned it when it mattered. And you responded. We didn’t need to talk past that.”

Dean puts the seed catalog down, stands up, and stretches deeply like a big cat before turning around to look at Sam.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore does it? My little brother is gone at this point anyway.”

Sam has no good response to that. Instead he walks out of the hotel room, heads for the garden, and settles himself into the trench that Dean has dug. He waits for his brother to come back and cover him with soil, so that he can find out what he’ll grow into.

* * *

Sam comes back in and crashes on the bed beside Dean, hip pressed to hip and slightly out of breath with his excitement.

“I found it!”

Dean pushes the mute button on the ancient block remote for the TV and gives Sam his full attention. A graciousness Sam would never show in a moment like this.

“Found what?”

“I found the link. Between your case and my case!”

This is not good. The second Sam says it Dean knows that it’s not good. Sam never gets this excited about cases anymore. It’s one of the reasons Dad and he have been leaving the youngest Winchester out of the hunts recently.

The other is that neither of them can stand the idea of him being in danger. No matter what Sam fucking thinks about Dad’s intentions.

“What’s the link?”

“Qadesh’s Platter.”

For a moment Dean tries to figure out the next thing it would be safest for him to say, but he can’t come up with anything other than a silent stare with his mouth open. Sam takes that as approval to keep moving.

“It’s a restaurant. In Santa Ana. It’s an Egyptian restaurant.”

“And?”

“And all of the kids whose bodies were found had Hibiscus tea in their systems. It’s the only place around here that has that on the menu, _and_ it’s been open since 1972.”

“You’re telling me all the dead kids had the same unusual thing in their system and the cops never put two and two together?” Dean regrets the question as soon as he asks it, because Sam is usually the one that argues for police competency.

“Yes Dean, I’m suggesting that the cops fucked up.”

Dean nods, because he can’t come back from sarcasm that strong, and then stands up and reaches for the keys.

“I’ll check it out. You’re staying here.”

* * *

Sam wakes up at a rest stop, his arm throbbing in its cast and his neck creaking just a little from the angle he had it at. He knows better than to lean it back instead of using the window, but he didn’t even really plan on sleeping this time around.

A quick check at the scenery lets him know that the predominant license plate in the parking lot suggests that they are in Pennsylvania. Dean has managed a lot of miles without any switching out. He’ll have to change that.

He steps out of the Impala and stretches, feeling the pull on his shoulders and lower back before he twists side to side and then does a few deep knee bends. Dean is across the asphalt, sitting on a bench and eating Cheetos out of a vending machine bag as he studies his phone. Sam considers going over, and then stops himself at the last second. Instead he swerves into the building and checks the stalls before choosing the one furthest from the door with the wall to his broken arm.

Scrubbing up after, Sam takes the time to splash cold water on his face and smooth his hair down before he goes out to join Dean. His brother has switched to sour cream and onion Lays.

“You keep eating like that you’ll be fat by thirty.”

“Like I’ll see thirty.”

It’s said lightly, without any real malice, but Sam feels a cold spike in his gut that he pushes down so he can sit a respectable distance away from Dean on the picnic table bench.

“Want me to take over the driving?”

Dean’s eyebrow cocks up, mouth tightening briefly before he turns the phone off and slides it back into his pocket.

“With that busted wing? I don’t think so. Your maneuverability is shit.”

Sam takes a breath.

“Dean, it’s not that bad and you’ve been driving for forever. I can be trusted with the car.”

A finger points at him, a warning and an admonishment all at once.

“No, you cannot, you know why? Because you think she’s just a car.”

“I _know_ she’s just a car.”

“And that’s why you can’t drive her.”

Sam rubs his face, trying to remember how to be calm in the face of Dean being irrational.

“I won’t wreck Baby.”

“No. You won’t.”

“Good because-“

“Because you won’t be driving her.”

And with that, like a fucking coward, Dean takes off for the car with Sam in hot pursuit and the high intensity lights in the parking lot casting shadows much longer and taller than the both of them as they run.

* * *

Only pointing out that a real health inspector wouldn’t be traveling with his little brother while on the clock keeps Sam out of the car. Dean parks in front of the restaurant and scopes it out a little before heading in. There’s nothing terribly stand out about it. The crowd is respectable for a weekday lunch, and the servers all have the look of family as they move smoothly in between set tables.

The floor manager is happy to take him back into the kitchen for a surprise inspection. No concerns there at all the portly man insists as he leads Dean back into the bustle of the cooking staff. The chef is young, early twenties at best, and the floor manager introduces him as Bomani. Dean shakes the guy’s hand, notes the strong and semi-aggressive grip, and then asks them to take him to the freezers.

He can already tell they won’t let him go anywhere alone, but whether that’s suspicious or just a cautious business thing he can’t quite tell. Either way he makes his way through every nook and cranny of the business before thanking the chef and floor manager again and heading towards the front door. Dean can feel eyes on his back as he reaches the exit, and that’s when he knows that he’s going to have a tough night.

Sam is on to something. Even if they weren’t staring at him like he was pointing a gun at them he would know Sam was on to something. Because Dean has been in the sort of industrial walk in freezers the restaurant has before. Dean has walked in them, studied them, worked in them, and one memorable summer got to second base in one.

But he’s never felt the tell-tale buckle of a trapdoor in one.

After he gets back to the motel room his little brother wastes no time in reading his facial expression and celebrating his victory. For all Sam’s unearned maturity, his little brother acts like a regular kid in moments like this. If it wasn’t so fucking annoying Dean would enjoy it.

They plot out the break in together, not because Dean initially plans on letting Sam join, but because it never hurts to have a second set of eyes on any illegal activity. By the time Dean realizes Sam is writing himself into the plan it’s too late for him to take back telling his brother that it’s a good one.

And just like that, Dean has a partner in crime and no way to take it back.

Maybe he’ll regret it later, but Sam is typically fairly careful. This is a low risk operation. They should be fine.

* * *

The hotel would be predictably creepy if it weren’t for the fucking dolls. The dolls really creep Sam the fuck out. He feels eyes on him as he walks past them, trying his hardest to keep his exterior blank because even though it’s illogical he can’t shake the feeling he shouldn’t show weakness in front of them.

Dean is forcing jokes about the place, eyes everywhere, but Sam is more interested in the owner of the Bed and Breakfast. Whether or not she realizes it she’s exactly the type to be a main character in the kind of story the Winchesters often find themselves narrating. From the innocent and put upon look on her face to the pale daughter trailing along behind her. They’re so wholesome they could practically bleed holy water and dandelions.

Somebody else says they look like antiquers and Dean goes into another self-righteous tirade about why people always assume they’re together. It takes everything in Sam to not respond by telling his brother that they were once. Briefly, but once.

The taste of that comeback is bitter on his tongue, and Sam wonders how he’ll ever wash it out. The lasting impression that if he wanted to crush Dean all he would need to do is remind his brother that once upon a time Sam managed to pull even the crusading hero down into the pit with him.

He puts it away, stores it in the space that holds all the things that he wants to say and never will again. There’s no winning that game.

* * *

Dean may not love having Sam join him in committing a crime and inspecting what is potentially the site of mass murder, but he does love how easily Sam moves with him. It’s like having a slightly taller and much more intelligent shadow. When Dean falters with the lockpick set Sam takes over, not a word said just bony hands sliding along Dean’s and twisting his wrist a little until the pop happens.

The two of them slide through the restaurant, only light from the street outlining the tables with their chairs stacked on top and the slightly gleaming white tiles of the scrubbed floor. At least their hygiene standards seem to be high.

Closer to the kitchen Dean gets a prickly feeling, and he holds his left hand out to stop Sam before sliding around the corner of the kitchen door and into the main space. There’s nothing immediately in his sight line, and if he hadn’t learned long ago from their dad that instinct is fifty percent of survival he would shake this feeling off and move fast. It’s never good to linger during a B&E.

He steps slow, heel down first and insole rolling to touch toes before the next foot moves. Everything is so quiet, and without the heat of the ovens and the bustle of the staff the kitchen’s shiny metal surfaces make Dean think briefly of a funhouse he and Sam got lost in once. They slept there that night, wrapped around each other, Sam all desperate and quivering in his fear until his big brother covered him totally.

Dean makes his third or fourth fatal mistake in that moment. He turns, just for a moment, to see his little brother. Why? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that in that moment he has to see Sam. Which he does. And then a moment later he sees nothing.

* * *

Sam doesn’t care. Sam doesn’t care. Sam _doesn’t fucking care_.

He hasn’t cared for years. He didn’t care that dad hated him when he left for Stanford, he didn’t care that dad hated him when they found him again, and he doesn’t care now that dad died thinking he was gonna be a monster. Sam doesn’t fucking care.

He doesn’t care that Dean knows it either. Or that Dean is obviously watching him. Thinking about it. Every second thinking about it. He doesn’t need to ask Dean what he really wants when it comes to dad’s last order. He doesn’t care that Dean was already planning out how to handle him.

Planning it long before he even told Sam it was necessary.

He doesn’t give a shit about any of it. Not while he’s drinking the cheap liquor, not while he’s staring into the void of nothing more than the life he thought he had escaped. The brother that he thought he would never see again.

Wasn’t it enough that he packed it all up and took off? Wasn’t it enough that he gave up and walked away without a fuss or a fight? If Dean couldn’t appreciate that gift, was Sam required to just sit around until his brother saw enough darkness to put a bullet in his brain?

They’ve already lost. Dean isn’t looking for a way to fix it he’s looking for a way to avoid it. He’s already accepted that dad is always right, and that Sam is a piece of shit monster. The salesman dangling from the ceiling is like a comma in Sam’s death sentence.

When Dean steps through the door all of Sam’s silent resentment boils over. He lashes out, gently at first, as gently as his drunken brain can allow him to. And then when Dean doesn’t take the bait, just asks him about the booze, Sam hits lower. As low as he can.

That’s how they were taught. Sometimes Sam forgets, but that **is** how they were taught. For all the codes and ethics that their father must have picked up when he was in the Corps what he trained into them certainly had nothing of honor or rules in it.

“Dean, Dad told you to do it.”

He sees the anger, the sorrow, and he knows that he’s managed to punch Dean directly in the soft underbelly. He would feel bad about it if he could feel anything other than victory screaming to overwhelm the single direction that everything is now rushing in. The moment when Dean finally sheds off the weight of Sam for well and good.

Then Dean leans over, presses his face to Sam’s, and rubs his lips across the arch of Sam’s clammy right cheekbone.

* * *

Dean realizes too late that he’s missed a lot more of the action around him than he can afford. He sees the woman before he opens his eyes. Her form is long and lanky, and at first the light behind her head is so bright that he thinks she has the head of lion. When the light dims he can instead see that while her eyes are a lion’s, her face is a beautifully sculpted work of art. She strokes a hand across Dean’s cheek and forehead, and then she opens his eyes.

He sees the staff from the restaurant, along with a number of other people that have familial markings. They’re dressed in robes, and the young head chef is leading a chant. He’s not bound, but he can’t move. The air is heavy with smoke and incense and Dean works hard to move just his eyes. The woman bent over him turns his head gently with her hands and he sees that Sam is laying on the floor not too far from him.

Over his brother hunkers a young man, Egyptian, just as beautiful as the woman over Dean. He’s petting Sam’s hair, a thing that would usually set Dean off but instead swells something affectionate and warm in his heart that he suspects is not his own. The young man lifts Sam’s hand and stretches it out before the woman takes Dean’s and moves it to connect the circuit. Their fingers link at the direction of the two.

He can hear the crowd of the restaurant staff, the fucking cult apparently, but it’s dim in the background and makes no sense despite being English. Dean lets his fingers hold Sam’s, and then he fights it and pulls back because the touch is far more intimate than should be allowed.

The woman roars, all lion now, and the man leaps forward dragging Sam’s body so that his open hand claws at Dean’s bicep and leaves a trail of bloody nail scratches. The crowd gets louder, but all Dean can focus on is the woman. She is in his face, desperate, furious, her eyes glowing brightly. Images roll out of her mouth and directly into Dean’s head.

Behind the images he can see Sam’s eyes widening, no doubt a similar story playing out. Dean sees the two of them, young and beautiful, standing over a desert kingdom with no care at all that worshippers kneel while they embrace each other. He is her brother, her other half, and she loves him. She lays him down on the bed and rides him, leading him through the steps as they fuck their way through generations of people.

The worshippers fade, die out, new religions and kingdoms rising in their place. In the cycle of it the two of them start to lose form, substance, and Dean feels her rage and grief the first time she reaches for her brother and cannot touch him anymore. The two lay in the same space, existing without form, dying in each other, until suddenly they are in a new land.

Worshippers. Worshippers again. Calling them with old words and older scents. Bringing them bodies to move and manipulate. The bodies let them touch and in return they shower their blessings and their love on the people that bring them this gift. Every debt is paid.

But time, time is cruel and she sees it pass again. The new generation knows a little less than the one before about the purpose of the ritual. With time and tide they lose the spirit of it entirely, and the first time they bring bodies that refuse to touch she and her brother are driven insane with the need to be together and the base refusal of the bodies. They could win, they still have that power, but there’s no love to be had in the meeting. Nothing pure to live through.

She is furious and grief-stricken as she looks at Dean. He knows what she wants, but more importantly he knows that she has given up on wanting more than one last moment of being able to comfort her brother. Dean can understand her. Dean can understand feeling like the ground is running out and the only thing that will make hitting the cliff worth it is moving in unison with the only thing in the world that matters to him.

When she takes his hand this time he doesn’t fight it. He knows what his feelings are, but he can only hope that whatever is left of Sam’s big brother worship will give the incorporeal brother what he needs too. He lets her move his hand slow, soft, cup Sam’s sharp cheek and stroke once before pulling the beloved face in for a kiss. The brother, the young man, surges Sam forward into it and their lips touch ferocious and needy.

Between the two of them they rip the clothes from their little brother’s body, fumbling once with the fly in a way that Dean would never if he had full control, and then she lifts Dean up from the ground defying gravity so that she can pull their little brother up on his knees. She calls something, and one of the cultists slides a small jar of oil towards them. From there her fingers entwine with Dean’s and slide inside, too many at once but the hunger is too great.

The young god’s head throws back silently as Sam’s arches with it and his baby brother lets out a cry that hurts Dean’s heart and throws his cock into overdrive. He can hear himself growling, wordless and blood-curdling, and then he lays down and slides across the rough stone floor of the cellar space so that he’s under Sam.

She grips his cock, wraps their hands around their brother’s to press the two together, and then fucks them together until Sam and the young god are just as hard and leaking precum over their fingers. She lifts those fingers up, and Dean tastes all three of the cocks involved in the process along with the sacrificial oils and the sweat from their bodies. He can feel how wet and hungry she is, her body one with his.

Dean tells her in their head to hurry the fuck up, no longer caring about the logistics of the strange orgy as much he does the driving need to open Sam and the young god up on their cock and claim them forever. Fuck them so hard that they’ll be one no matter how soon death comes. She doesn’t argue with him, grabbing their little brother’s hips and then thrusting into the virgin hole without a single hesitation. Sam is scrabbling at Dean’s shoulders, screaming, eyes wide and staring right at Dean as the young god trembles and gasps silently just over his shoulder. Dean hesitates, not alone as the goddess seems to realize that perhaps this configuration of bodies can’t enjoy what she is used to causing pleasure, and then the young god presses his face into Sam’s shoulder and twists his hips tightening Sam over their cock. His little brother comes, hard, face screwing up and gasping as he blows his load so violently it hits Dean’s chin and his ass becomes a vice.

Which makes it just fine for Dean and the goddess to fuck them through their orgasm, hard, dominating, controlling every last gasp and tremble and aftershock and not stopping when the bodies above them are begging and sagging and getting hard again from the over stimulation. It goes on forever, the two deities entwined even as Dean feels the universe narrow down to just himself and Sam wrapped around each other.

Finally Dean and the goddess make it to the finish line, filling Sam and the young god together before they lay still and sweating. Dean can hear the cultists now. He hears them murmuring in confusion, wondering why the sacrifice has gone so far off track, and if they need to step in and finish the job. The head chef lifts a knife, reflecting the candlelight in the cellar, and Dean thinks that if he rolls over he might cover enough of Sam to take all the cuts.

It’s unnecessary. The goddess stands, detaching from Dean, and her brother takes her hand. She looks at Dean once, _every debt must be paid_ the look says, and then turns to the cultists. What happens next is terrible, worse than Dean could have imagined, and Sam hides his face in Dean’s chest and shakes. Half of the cultists appear to be asphyxiating, gasping as if the air has simply left them. The other half start to dry out, rotting in the air without any visible reasoning. It takes a long time for the group of them to die.

When it’s over Dean collects his baby brother. The deities are gone. Sam is dead weight, but Dean manages to wrap his lanky frame up and carry him out of the cellar and to the car. When they finally get back to the motel he makes sure no one is watching before he takes his naked little brother into the room and washes him up.

He shouldn’t. After everything else he shouldn’t, but Dean slips into bed next to his brother and falls asleep. When he wakes up Sam is staring at the ceiling with that contemplative look Dean is always afraid of.

“Do you think we would have…done it if they hadn’t been there?”

That’s not hope in Sam’s voice. Dean can’t let that be hope.

“No.”

Sam is gone three days later.

* * *

Sam’s too drunk to do anything but accept it when Dean’s mouth shifts over his. His brother slides into his space, moves in perfect counterpoint so that they become one person again as they kiss. Lips sliding in unison with hands and legs tangling at the same time as fingers. Dean’s toes rub his ankle, his fingers caress Dean’s pulse point and feel it racing, their knees slide against each other and Sam’s jeans pull up enough that he feels the hair and skin of Dean’s leg.

It’s more than comforting, it’s the moment that all the pressure of a headache releases and you slide into sleep. Sam takes it all in, breathing Dean and eating Dean and being Dean. The better part of Sam. When they’re breathless and Sam is slack and calm Dean rolls them onto their side but keeps them tangled.

“Why? You said no back then. So why?”

Dean looks at him, but a version Sam has no hope of ever seeing. Something that Sam has no doubt is beautiful, and true, and maybe he’s just a little too shit-faced still to have any kind of conversation anyway.

“It deserved to be better.”

His brother rolls over, leaving Sam silent, unsure, and scared at what starts growing in him again.


End file.
